Read Ebook: Italian Yesterdays vol. 1 by Fraser Hugh Mrs

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Ebook has 358 lines and 29757 words, and 8 pages

While Captain Ichabod was busy with the rescue of the girl, there had come a lull in the storm. The wind had hauled around to the southwest, and was now blowing a stiff breeze off shore, which, taken together with the fast-running tide still on the ebb, had caused the seas to lessen in the Inlet. Under these improved conditions, the Captain decided to make a try at relieving the castaway from his sorry plight.

He launched the red skiff, and set out to row toward the wreck. He was encouraged in the difficult task by the frantic gestures with which the victim of the storm called for succor. Captain Ichabod reflected grimly that this fellow who had disregarded his warnings must be plainly a maniac. Yet he was sufficiently sane to have a normal desire to be saved from death. He guessed that perhaps the yachtsman had been temporarily unbalanced in his mind when in the grip of the raging waters--then, afterward, had regained his self-control, and with it a wholesome desire to live.

Captain Ichabod managed to bring the skiff up under the lee of the wreck. He threw a rope to the man, and bade him make it fast. The order was obeyed. Ichabod then directed the yachtsman to collect his valuables and come aboard the skiff. The castaway lost no time in obeying. Presently, carrying a small black bag, he seated himself in the skiff, and Ichabod turned the boat's nose toward the shore, and bent to the oars, in haste to get back to his patient, and so to complete his list of rescues for that eventful day.

During the short interval of time consumed in going from the wreck to the Island, the stranger made anxious inquiries as to the fate of the girl. He had thought that she was dead. When he heard from Captain Ichabod that the girl still lived he was obviously startled and surprised, but, too, he showed every symptom of intense pleasure. He displayed anxiety as to what the girl might have said. Then, when he learned that she had said nothing at all, he appeared greatly relieved. He seemed pleased to learn that she was still unconscious.

Ichabod, wonderingly, thought that he heard the stranger say:

"Thank God!"

The boat was no sooner beached than the man who had been rescued leaped ashore, still carrying in his hand the small physician's bag. He raced toward the cabin, as if he felt that life or death depended on his haste.

Captain Ichabod suddenly felt very old and worn. He had used too much energy in this work of rescue, and now the reaction set in. He dawdled over the securing of the skiff. Then he made his way with lagging steps toward the cabin. He pushed open the door, and was startled to behold the man he had rescued kneeling beside the couch of the girl. At the noise of the opening door, the man sprang to his feet.... Ichabod wondered as he glimpsed an object that shone like silver, and then was slipped cautiously into the man's coat pocket.

Captain Ichabod approached the bed upon which the girl lay motionless. He noticed on the forearm a tiny drop of blood. He wondered also over this, then solved the puzzle to his satisfaction by thinking that a mosquito had left this trace of its attack. He was confirmed in the opinion by the fact that there was a white blotch beneath the touch of crimson.

Captain Ichabod tried to question the man he had saved, but found every answer baffling and unsatisfactory. The yachtsman refused any sort of information. His reticence angered the old man, and he at last spoke his mind freely, with something of suspicion engendered by a new thought concerning that curious drop of blood on the girl's arm.

The man who had been rescued by Ichabod started violently as he heard the word "dope." He cast a probing glance on the old man, but spoke never a word.

"Thar is one thing fer sartin," continued the fisherman, "if it hain't dope that is a'lin' o' her, it's somethin' that calls fer an M.D., an' if she hain't come to her senses in an hour, I'll put the rag on the skiff an' run up to Beaufort an' bring back Dr. Hudson to pass on the case. Thar has never been a death o' a human in Ichabod Jones' shack, an' Lord have mercy, the first passin' sha'n't be a woman!"

The condition of the girl continued such that Ichabod felt it necessary to summon the physician. He must make the trip in his sailboat to Beaufort, the nearest town along the coast. The yachtsman now approved the idea.

When Captain Ichabod went to make ready his boat for the trip to town, the yachtsman followed him, and then presently, walking down to where the wreckage had come ashore, proceeded to right and clear of d?bris a little cedar motor boat, which had come ashore from the wrecked yacht, practically unharmed, except that the batteries were wet.

In the absence of Captain Ichabod, the stranger removed all the wire connections in this small boat, and placed the batteries over the stove to dry. When they were in fact thoroughly dried, he waited patiently for the departure of Captain Ichabod in search of a physician. Presently, the old man set out on his errand of mercy. The stranger yachtsman grinned derisively as he saw the boat slip into the smother of storm-tossed waters.

A NEW CALAMITY

Perhaps there is no point upon the Carolina coast where there is more interest shown in weather conditions than at Beaufort, the present terminus of the great inland water-route from Boston to the Gulf. There are vital reasons for this. First: a fleet of small fishing vessels makes this their home port. Hardly a family in the town that has not one or more of its members going to sea in the little craft. To be caught off shore in one of the West India hurricanes, which, at irregular intervals, touch this point, means almost certain destruction. Again: there is always danger to the low-lying town from a tidal wave. The town is built on flat ground almost level with the surface of the water. There is no sea wall to keep off the angry waves. The dwellers in the town have learned their danger through dear experience in times past when the waves have swept over it, bringing desolation and death.

Luckily, the storm that brought the strangers to Captain Ichabod Jones did not blow long enough from the southeast to cause severe damage to the town. Nor was there loss of life at sea. The masters of the fishing boats had seen the weather flags--angry red, with sullen black centers--flying from the signal mast. They had taken warning and remained in port through the time of tempest.

When Uncle Icky rounded the point of marsh land, and headed his skiff for Beaufort, the eyes of the storm-bound fishermen and the other lounging natives gathered at the market wharf quickly espied the familiar patched rag of sail and were filled with wonder as to what could have tempted the old man from his snug Island out into the teeth of the gale. When he sped into the slip, there were many hands ready to grasp the hawser tossed to them by Captain Ichabod, and make it fast to a "punchin."

If the loungers had expected to hear something startling, they were doomed to disappointment. He had no time then to stop and gossip with friends. He hurried on, with an air of unaccustomed self-importance on account of the serious nature of his mission. He was in quest of Dr. Hudson, a great-hearted man, who had spent the best years of his life in ministering to the ills of these fisherfolk. They, in their turn, looked upon him with a feeling of grateful fondness, tinctured with awe--so miraculous to them seemed many of his cures. And, too, they honored him for the manner in which he did his duty toward them. Never a night too black, never a storm too high, for him to fare forth for the relief of suffering. Latterly, however, he had felt the weight of work over much, had felt perhaps as well the burden of advancing years. He had so contrived that a young medical graduate opened up a practise in the neighborhood. He had adroitly used the influence of suggestion so diplomatically that most of the chronic cases--those that took comfort in telling of their maladies, in detailing their symptoms to unwilling listeners--had gladly availed themselves of the new treatment offered by the young physician. In this way, the old Doctor was spared a tedious and unnecessary routine of labor, yet was left free for such urgent calls as might come to him.

Ichabod found the physician at home, and declared:

"Thar's sick folks at my shack what needs ye an' needs ye bad."

The doctor was aware that Ichabod's sole companion in the shack was the rooster. Knowing also the Captain's fondness for the Dominick, he was inclined to be suspicious that this call for his services was as a veterinary.

"I suppose," he said, "your Shrimp has the pip." Then, of a sudden, he guessed something of the truth. He spoke anxiously. "There hasn't been a wreck, has there?"

"Right ye air, Doctor, there has been a fool shipwreck on my oyster rocks. The captain of the ship an' his mate air at the shack this very minute. He's batty as a toad arter swallerin' shot. An' she's outter her haid--leastways she ain't got sense 'nough left ter talk."

In answer to questions, Ichabod gave a full narrative of what had occurred, telling all the events in his own quaint fashion, to all of which Doctor Hudson listened with the closest attention.

His comment was crisp.

"It sounds like whisky--more likely, morphia. I reckon it's my duty to go." As a matter of fact, the physician's curiosity had been aroused. He was professionally anxious to get at a solution of the mystery. He hurriedly changed his clothes in preparation for the rough voyage to Ichabod's Island, and equipped himself with the old, worn leather bag stocked with medicines, which, for years, had been a familiar sight throughout the whole region in every household where disease came to terrify and destroy.

"Hurry, Ichabod," the Doctor cried. "We'll shake a leg, or the tide'll be running against us."

Ichabod's skiff was tailed to the physician's little launch. The motor power made the voyage to the Island swift, although it was rough, even to the point of danger on account of the storm-driven waters. When they had made fast at the landing, the two hurried to the shack. The door was swinging wide. But to their amazement and dismay not even Shrimp was there to give them welcome. The place was utterly deserted. The visitors so strangely cast up from the sea had vanished as mysteriously as they had come. There was the bed on which the girl had been lying--now it was empty. Not even a vestige of her clothing remained to prove that she was more than the figment of a crazed brain. Ichabod stared about him with distended eyes. He could make no guess as to the meaning of the strange thing that had befallen. Then, abruptly, his dazed mind was aroused to a new calamity.... Shrimp, too, was gone!

Presently, Ichabod looked for the yacht's tender, and found it likewise gone. He was able to understand in some measure what had occurred. The batteries had been dried by the hot stove in the shack, and--the little craft thus restored to running condition--the man had undoubtedly fled with the girl. And with them Shrimp had voyaged. A sudden overwhelming desolation fell on the old man. He had been through much that day. He had been strained to the utmost resources of his energies. And he was an old man. He had small reserves of force with which to meet the unexpected. Now, he felt himself bewildered over all the strange happenings. And there was something more. The one constant companion of his lonely life was Shrimp--and Shrimp, too, had fled from him.

The Doctor, very much puzzled over this absence of an expected patient, started to leave the shack. He halted at the head of the steps, and looked down in a bewilderment touched with pity.

For Ichabod was on his knees before the steps of his own house, and his form was shaken with the sobbings of despair.

UNDER THE AFTER AWNING

Sidewalks along Fifth Avenue were packed with persons of all nationalities, representatives of every variety of industrial activity in the life of the City. There was a reviewing stand erected in front of the massive library that displayed its lines of architectural beauty in place of the sloping, age-gray walls of the old reservoir at Bryant Square. City officials and families of officers in the troops soon to pass were assembled there to witness this march of soldiers on their way to entrain for the Mexican border. They were filled with the zeal of patriots, because their comrades had been foully killed on that same border by a treacherous foe, and they were being sent to avenge that insult against the life and dignity of their nation.

Came the rhythmic beat of feet on the pavement; came the blare of the band. The two swung together into a harmony of marching. These boys, ordered to the front, were going, steadfastly, as in duty bound. They loved this "send-off." They marched with vigor in their steps, because ten thousand handkerchiefs waved from the windows along the line of march.

On the sidewalks was assembled a strange crowd. There were the stenographers taking their noonday outing. Many were carefully over-powdered and perfumed. They were dressed after the latest fashion--a long way after it!

But the Midinettes were a very small proportion of those wild to see the real soldiers.

All New York had heard the troops were to march that day. And all New York turned out to see the regiments.

There are a myriad phases of metropolitan life. Those phases were illustrated that day in the crowds along the line of march. The bulk of those clustering at the curb were of a sort eager for a free show. In the countless loft buildings bordering the avenue were hordes of men and women too busy in earning a pitiful wage to think of anything so frivolous as a procession, with banners waving and bands playing. But while these had no thought of marching troops, there were innumerable others. For New York is a city gigantic. Within it are hosts. Some of these always are idle. Some, always eager for the free show of the streets.

So, to-day, when the troops are to march by with shrill of fife and blatant noise of band, the multitude comes scurrying, curious to see, patriotic with the emotional patriotism of one just become a citizen of a free country, where before he was the unrecognized and unhonored subject of despotism, from which he fled in search of liberty.

New York is a city of millions. It is the biggest city on earth. It is the melting pot of nations. The crowd that lines the curb is of one sort. There is another sort marching the length of the avenue. And this is a mixture to bewilder any beholder. A countryman from New Jersey, with his wife and children comes to-day for this splendid free show of the troops that are to march; the countrymen from the reaches of New York along the Hudson, with the same purpose; his fellows from Long Island, from Connecticut. With these alien figures, treading the principal city street of the world, are others. Those who walk there daily walk there again to-day. The clubman, coated, hatted, gloved to perfection, takes his accustomed stroll on the avenue, and looks with contemptuous disgust on the crowd that forces him to walk gingerly where usually he struts as a master. He, too, is a patriot and he means to see the march of the troops, and to applaud it--but from his club window, if ever he is able to make his way there through the perspiring congestion of the motley crowd.

There is a crew of money-makers, busy along the avenue on an occasion such as this. These are hordes of itinerant merchants moving up and down with things to sell to the crowd. They offer canes and instruments of noise that by a twist of the wrist make a horrible din. Especially, they offer American flags--bigger or smaller according to the purchaser's taste and purse. These are bought with eagerness by the crowd, and the fakers reap a harvest from the enthusiasm of those assembled to witness the marching soldiers.

The boy with a box is dominant. Wherever a short, but eager watcher stands to look, the boy comes, with his offer of a box to stand on, a box to sit on, as the purchaser may please, for the nominal cost of ten cents. Always, one finds at hand this boy, with the box that he offers for your sitting or for your feet, as you will. One box bought, he shows another, offering it for sale. Whence he comes with boxes so multitudinous none may guess. But he goes away with nickles and dimes enough perhaps to provide an income that will continue over until another day of parade.

In the reviewing stand, there was seated a girl who watched the marching troops with an intentness that had in it something of desperation, something of despair. Yet, as the soldiers passed, she gave them little heed. She was always looking toward those advancing, as if in search for something that meant more to her than this moving mass of troops.

A band passed. Behind it, at the head of his men, rode Colonel Marion. As he came opposite the reviewing stand, his eyes swept over the crowd seated on the tiers of benches. They rested on the face of the girl, who had been so anxiously watching. He smiled and saluted. The girl--his daughter Ethel--waved her handkerchief eagerly in response. Then she turned, and spoke to the young man who sat beside her. There was love, touched with reverence, in her voice.

"Isn't Daddy splendid!"

Her companion, Roy Morton, answered with sincerity, in which was a tincture of irrepressible bitterness.

"He's every inch a soldier."

The bitterness came from the fact that a broken tendon--received during his last football fight for Yale--disqualified him for military service, for which he longed more than ever in this hour when he saw the girl beside him so thrilled by the pomp of war, when he saw her pride and exultation in the military bearing of the father she revered. He felt that he must seem a slacker in her eyes, even though she knew that no fault of his own kept him at home, while others marched away to serve their country.

For Roy loved Ethel and his chief desire always was to show perfect in her eyes. For that matter, he was successful enough, since the girl loved him. Their troth was plighted, and in due time they would be married with the full approval of Colonel Marion, who both liked and respected his prospective son-in-law. So, in preparation for his own absence from home on military service, he strictly charged Roy to watch over Ethel and guard her from any possible peril. It was only a father's instinctive act in protection of his child. As a matter of fact, what danger could by any possibility threaten the well-being of this Ethel, who would remain living quietly in her father's New York house, along with the elderly cousin who acted as chaperon to the motherless girl, and the staff of old and faithful servants?

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